“Where’s His Holiness?”

I startled but, thankfully, pulled my brush away from the fresco instead of across it. From atop my scaffolding a few feet off the floor, I glanced over. Michelangelo stood awkwardly in the doorway, hands in pockets. I flicked my fingers at him, then pulled up my sleeves, rolled my wrist—uno, due, tre, quattro— and moved in to add another stroke of paint.

He cleared his throat and said, “I’ve finished the ceiling.”

My eyes flicked up. “The entire thing?”

“The first half.”

I nodded. Half-finished meant there was still another half for me.

He said, “I have to take down the first half of the scaffolding and build new scaffolding under the second half of the ceiling before I can continue, but I don’t have the money for more wood.” I could feel his gaze on my brush, so I changed my stance. It’s one thing to glean inspiration from another man’s designs, but quite another to steal brush technique; the way I work my brush is as uniquely my own as the way I work a woman. Let Michelangelo find his own moves. “I can’t continue to work until I get more money,” he said.

“That does seem like a problem, but I can’t help you, and I have work to do, so . . .”

He shuffled into the room. “Is His Holiness here or . . . ?”

“You think the war is over after two weeks?” Another line of blue; the plaster was sluggish. I dipped in fast for more color.

“What war?”

“You didn’t notice the army gathered out front?”

“What army?” The scaffolding groaned. Was Michelangelo climbing my scaffolding?

“The papal army marching off to war,” I said. “Did you not notice the procession?”

He landed on the top of the scaffolding and leaned over my shoulder, casting a shadow over my hand. “I need the pope.”

I jerked my elbow, hoping to nudge him backward, but he didn’t back up. I said, “You mean the man who marched out at the head of his army? Horse, armor, lance . . .”

“The pope headed up the army?”

Flick, flick, flick went my brush.

“When will he be back?” he asked with more urgency.

“When the war is over I suppose. Now, if you’ll excuse me . . .”

“He hasn’t paid me in weeks.” Michelangelo paced. “How can he expect me to keep painting when he won’t pay for new paints? Does he pay you regularly?”

I kept my eyes on my brush.

“He does, doesn’t he? Che cavolo, how stupid am I? He hasn’t paid me un grosso for a year.” He kicked a stack of sketches. I cringed. It would take half-a-day to reorder them again. “I’m not good enough to get paid, am I? I should starve.” That’s when he sat down on my scaffolding. Sat down!